


sandstorms and hazy dawns

by kathkin



Series: The White Lion (a Witcher dæmon AU) [1]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: (sort of), Alternate Universe - Daemons, Canon-Typical Violence, Daemon Feels, Daemon Separation, Daemon Touching, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Gen, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt/Comfort, I've only seen the TV show so possible playing fast & loose with canon, M/M, Non Consensual Daemon Touching, Sharing a Bed, Vomiting, is it platonic or romantic? you decide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-22
Updated: 2020-02-22
Packaged: 2021-02-27 21:53:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22852795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kathkin/pseuds/kathkin
Summary: Geralt loves her, his lion, his dæmon. He loves her with every fibre of his being. She comes to him in the night, breath hot against his ear, and says, “can we keep them?”Geralt wants to keep Jaskier at arm's length. His dæmon has other ideas. Jaskier and his dæmon are made of sterner stuff than they look.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: The White Lion (a Witcher dæmon AU) [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1656127
Comments: 75
Kudos: 1927





	sandstorms and hazy dawns

**Author's Note:**

> 1) Title is from [The Sore Feet Song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l_pSxcd0uHA) by Ally Kerr (aka the first Mushishi opening). I also listened to [Shiver](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1o84y-5-cO0) by Lucy Rose (aka Mushishi opening.... 2!) and the main theme to [The Mandalorian](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=V7yqW64Dx7c) a lot while writing this in case anyone wants a soundtrack.
> 
> 2) This fic owes a debt to [Two Halves of a Whole](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22610233) by [penguistifical](https://archiveofourown.org/users/penguistifical/pseuds/penguistifical), both for inspiring my choice of dæmon for Jaskier and for doing such a good job with 'Geralt and Jaskier bonding, but with dæmons' that it pushed me into writing this melancholy thing instead.
> 
> 3) Elves (and other non-human people, I'm new here so I don't know how many there are) don't have dæmons in this AU, they have regular ol' internal souls. I'd hope this goes without saying but I don't want anyone to think I'm implying that elves don't have souls. 
> 
> 4) Wikipedia on [dæmons](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/D%C3%A6mon_\(His_Dark_Materials\)).
> 
> 5) See the end of the work for dæmon key.

She comes to him in the night, breath hot against his ear, and says, “can we keep them?”

“No,” he says.

He feels her weight shift as she lies down beside him. “Why not?”

“You know why.”

She noses at his neck, at the side of his head, nuzzling him. He feels the beginnings of a purr down in her chest, feels it in her and inside himself. “I like them.”

He touches her head, burying his fingers in her coarse fur the way he hasn’t for years. It’s been a long time, since they were as close as this. When they are together she sleeps an arm’s length from him. For days at a time they’re apart. He knows her only as a flash of white on the edge of his vision, a scent in the air. She wanders for miles, for weeks, following her own path, and he sees her not at all.

He scratches at the join of her neck and jaw, and that purr grows, long and deep and contented. She lays her head down beside his, and he holds her. He’s aware of her tail flicking, restless. She’ll be awake a while yet and so will she. They always sleep and wake at the same times, no matter how many miles separate them.

Geralt loves her, his lion, his dæmon. He loves her with every fibre of his being. He loves her strength, her grace. He loves that she can take any shape she pleases, be a bird or a fish or a snake when the moment calls for it. He loves the distance she can walk from him. He would not have her any other way. He cannot imagine her any other way.

He knows that she loves him too. He understand why sometimes she despises him. He has cursed her, with his words and his thoughts, and she hates him for it. She has left him alone, and he hates her for it.

They say witchers feel nothing and they are not wrong. It doesn’t pain him when they are apart. He hasn’t felt that pain since he was a child. He barely remembers what it feels like.

She stops purring. Her breath puffs against his skin. “Stop thinking so hard,” she says. “Go to sleep.” Her tail has stopped twitching. “Go to sleep.”

*

“I think you and I might have got off on the wrong foot – as they say.”

_“White hair – no visible dæmon – two very – **very** scary looking swords – I know who you are.”_

It had surprised him, the ease with which that word _visible_ had tripped off the bard’s tongue; that unhesitating acknowledgement that just because he couldn’t see something did not mean it didn’t exist.

He says, “hm.”

“Aren’t you going to ask my name?”

“No,” he says.”

“You can call me Jaskier,” says the bard. With a jerk of his shoulder he indicates the songbird-dæmon perched atop his lute. “This is Tansy.” The dæmon peeps a greeting. Receiving no response the bard goes on, “she’s a nightingale which I think is very sexy of her. You know,” he adds. “Because I’m a singer. And she’s a – a songbird.”

He grunts an acknowledgement – if only to get the bard to stop explaining.

“You’re not the best conversationalist, are you?”

A sudden tension, inside his chest. She’s close. He looks up and there she is, slipping into view on the clifftop.

“It’s just usually when you have a conversation you take it in turns to speak,” says the bard. “Rather than one person doing all the – oh.”

Dag makes her way down the ragged cliff, leaping from perch to perch in languid motions till her white paws touch the earth and she’s beside him. Stooping Geralt runs his hand over her head in greeting. Her eyes narrow.

He’s aware of the restlessly silent presence of the bard behind them shifting his weight, his dæmon fluttering about his head, aware perhaps that he’s intruding on something intimate.

Geralt straightens, and the bard takes that as his cue to begin again. He clears his throat and says, “what can I call her?”

It’s been a long time, since anyone has asked for her name so brazenly; in fact he isn’t sure anyone ever has. Geralt shoots the bard a look.

“Well, you must call her _something_ ,” he says, unintimidated.

“I do,” says Geralt. “You don’t.”

The nightingale-dæmon, now resting upon her bard’s shoulder, is eying Dag curiously, but she’s cautious enough not to approach.

“Right,” says the bard. “Well, then.”

*

Come morning, Dag is gone, but not gone far. Out of sight, but not so far away he can’t feel her. She’ll come back when it pleases her.

He readies Roach for the path ahead, half-listening to the lilt of conversation that carries from the bushes; Jaskier’s voice, and the pretty voice of his dæmon.

The bard stumbles out into view, tousled and bleary from a night on the ground. “G’morning.” He ambles over to join Geralt.

“What will it take to get rid of you?” says Geralt.

“My, someone woke up on the wrong side of the – ground,” says Jaskier. “More than yesterday. Where are we off to next?” He puts his hand on Roach’s saddle. Geralt swats it away.

“I’m going north,” he says. “You go wherever you want.”

“Maybe I want to go with you,” says Jaskier. In a flutter of wings his dæmon comes to rest on the pommel of Roach’s saddle, and he can’t shoo her away. He wouldn’t dare put his hands near her.

They say of witchers that they have no souls. They say their dæmons are something else, something monstrous. They say they have no respect for the great taboo. When they see him mothers’ dæmons snatch their children away.

“You don’t,” says Geralt.

“You sound awfully sure,” says Jaskier.

 _You don’t know what you’re asking for_ , Geralt wants to say. He doesn’t know how to say it in a way the bard would understand. He glowers at the nightingale-dæmon until she takes the hint and flies back to Jaskier’s shoulder.

He feels Dag before he hears her, the padding of her feet on the ground as she emerges from the bushes, the soft sound of her breathing.

Jaskier nudges him. “You don’t fool me,” he says. “You’re a big pussycat really. Don’t think I didn’t hear her purring all last night.”

“You’re imagining things,” says Geralt.

“I absolutely am not,” says Jaskier. “She was practically shaking the ground.”

At that Dag actually laughs, a short and bubbling laugh of real amusement. Geralt shoots her a look. Jaskier is looking at her too, looking at her curiously, startled by this, the first human sound he’s heard her make.

Looking away from them Dag stretches out on the ground, lounging as if she has nowhere to be. Jaskier tears his eyes away from her and says, “is she always a lion? It’s just –” His dæmon pecks him hard on the neck. “ _Ow_ – it’s just I heard witchers’ dæmons don’t settle.”

He fastens the straps on Roach’s saddle bag, and his hands still. “They aren’t unsettled,” he says. “They’re mutable.”

“I don’t follow,” says Jaskier.

“They settle,” he says. “But they keep the ability to change, after settling.”

“Ah, I see,” says Jaskier, nodding. “But is she –” His dæmon fastens her beak around his ear lobe and tugs. “Ow – _ow_ – alright – there’s no need to be like that,” he mutters to her.

“I’m leaving,” Geralt says. “As I said. Go where you please.”

The bard and his dæmon follow him north.

*

Chimney smoke rises down in the valley. He doesn’t know the name of the town.

Dag is waiting for him, draped in the branches of a tree. She’s been scouting ahead, or perhaps she’s restless, or perhaps both.

She yawns, showing off her teeth. “Did you lose them?”

“You know I didn’t,” says Geralt. He can hear Jaskier’s voice behind them in the woods, and so can she.

Her tail swishes. “Why not?” she says, and he knows at once what she means.

“You know why,” he says.

“Tell me.”

And she says it in that particular tone, a tone with steel in it, and he has to answer. “He’s soft,” he says. “He’s young. What he’s asking for will break him. He doesn’t understand.”

“Hm,” she says.

“It’s best he realises sooner,” he says.

“You don’t know how soft he is,” she says. “You don’t know him at all.”

“You’ve seen her,” he says. “That’s what he is.”

Tansy is delicate – pretty – fragile. She weighs almost nothing. She comes close by him as few dæmons will and every time he tenses for fear that he might touch her, without meaning to – hurt her – break her.

Dag’s tail is moving in the air, no longer swishing, flicking in sharp, angry jerks. “We both know that’s not how it works.”

He knows what she’s thinking. It hangs between them, unspoken. Another little bird dæmon they had once known, a pretty, charming robin-dæmon who had melted away like smoke before his eyes.

He might say _don’t. Don’t make me think of it_. But he doesn’t. This thing has been unspoken between them for so many years. He doesn’t know what will happen if he breaks the silence.

They’ve been on the road for five – almost six weeks. He’s growing used to the chatter and the birdsong. Jaskier hasn’t complained – hasn’t complained much – hasn’t complained as much as he’d expected, not even when his feet bled in his fancy shoes. He’s generous enough to share the coin he gets from playing. Geralt’s had worse travelling companions.

Jaskier blunders out of the trees. “ _There_ you are,” he says. “Trying to shake us?”

“Yes,” says Geralt.

Jaskier snorts, as if that’s a joke. He looks out over the valley, the distant strings of smoke hazy in the twilight. “Do you think they have an inn?”

“I don’t care,” says Geralt.

“I want to sleep in a real bed,” says Jaskier. “And I want a bath.”

“I’m not stopping you,” says Geralt.

“It’s going to be freezing tonight,” says Jaskier.

“I’m used to it,” says Geralt.

Jaskier nudges him. “C’mon,” he says. “You could use a bath yourself. I don’t like to say so, but you are a very – unusual smelling person.”

“You’ve said so several times,” says Geralt.

“Have I?” says Jaskier innocently.

“Yes,” says his dæmon.

“So I have,” he says.

“Go and find an inn if you want,” says Geralt. “I’m not stopping you.”

“Stop being ridiculous,” says Jaskier.

“ _I’m_ being ridiculous?” says Geralt.

“Yes,” says Jaskier. “Alright, how about this. I’ll buy you a drink.”

“I can buy my own drinks,” says Geralt.

“But I’m offering,” says Jaskier. “A kind and magnanimous offer, out of the goodness of my heart. And also I think it’s going to rain and I want to get in doors, so stop being ridiculous.”

“Hm,” says Geralt.

They go to the inn. It’s begun to rain by the time they reach the town. Tansy hides herself away within Jaskier’s cloak. Dag doesn’t follow them down the valley, preferring to find a dry spot in the woods, preferring to avoid prying eyes.

The inn is crowded with people sheltering from the rain; two more strangers with hidden dæmons don’t get a second look. The rafters are lined with bird-dæmons, safely away from the crowd. Sitting alone in his corner he watches their movements, the beating of their wings. There was a time Dag might have changed her shape and joined them. A space like this is never comfortable for a large dæmon.

There’s a bard playing, raising his voice to be heard over the crowd. He doesn’t sing as nicely as Jaskier. He’s made a poor choice of song, too, a quiet ballad, one of many about the beauty of the touch.

_“Her hand upon my dæmon, the first in my life – it was like roses in the summer and I knew then she’d be my wife –”_

Jaskier pushes his way through the press back to their table. “As promised,” he says, sliding Geralt a mug of ale. Geralt grunts a thank you. 

Jaskier sits, and regards him. Tansy flutters down to perch on the rim of his mug, dipping in her beak. Absently Jaskier strokes her downy back and Geralt tracks the tiny, intimate motion with his eyes. “Is this it, then?” says Jaskier.

“Is this what?” says Geralt.

“Is this how it goes?” says Jaskier. “It’s just that I can’t help but notice there hasn’t been a lot of witchering.”

“That’s not a word,” says Geralt, and takes a draft of ale.

“What?” says Jaskier. “Witchering?” Geralt grunts. “Maybe I’ll put it in a song and get people saying it.”

“Don’t you dare,” says Geralt, and Jaskier laughs a little.

“Really, though,” he says. “Is this it?”

“How many monsters do you think there are in the world?” says Geralt.

“How should I know?” says Jaskier. Still perched on his mug Tansy whistles along with the ballad. A moment later Jaskier’s fingers begin to tap along. “What d’you do when you can’t get any work?”

“I make do,” says Geralt.

“Hmm,” says Jaskier. Sensing he isn’t going to get any meaningful answers – or perhaps just bored – his gaze wanders to the bard. For a few moments he listens quietly. “Have you ever done it?”

“What?” says Geralt.

“You know.” Jaskier ducks his head in the direction of the bard.

“Been a bard?” says Geralt.

“That’s not what I meant and you know it,” says Jaskier, mock-stern.

“No,” says Geralt. “Not like that.”

He’s had another’s hands on his dæmon, more than once. He and Dag have sworn to themselves: never again.

“Hm,” says Jaskier. “No. Me neither.” Again he strokes Tansy, perhaps imagining it.

Tansy is still whistling along with the bard, giving the final notes of the ballad a few extra flourishes, and Geralt catches himself thinking that she and Jaskier would sing it better.

*

“I’ll be having the bath first – if you don’t mind,” says Jaskier.

“Hm,” says Geralt.

“Though don’t think I’m going to let you get away without bathing,” says Jaskier. “I know what you’re like, and, and your aroma is really starting to bother me.”

“Hm!” pipes up Tansy in agreement.

“Find someone else to annoy, then,” says Geralt. He sits on the edge of the bed, still in his armour. Jaskier is meandering about the washstand, unfastening his doublet, restless as ever.

He tosses his doublet onto the bed, and looks Geralt up and down. “You’re not planning on sleeping in that, are you?”

“Maybe,” says Geralt.

“What, do you think the inn’s going to get attacked in the night by – werewolves, or something?” says Jaskier.

“It wouldn’t be the first time,” says Geralt.

“I can never tell when you’re joking,” says Jaskier, and unlacing his undershirt as he goes he wanders behind the screen.

“I don’t joke,” says Geralt.

“See?” Jaskier’s undershirt drapes over the top of the screen. Tansy, perched beside it, tugs at it with her beak, neatening it up. “There you go again.”

Alone – or what passes for alone – Geralt begins to divest himself of his armour.

Jaskier’s trousers appear atop the screen. A moment later there’s a gentle splashing of water. A sigh.

“This soap smells like pig fat,” he remarks.

“That’s because it’s made of pig fat,” says Geralt.

“Well. Yes,” says Jaskier.

Tansy is looking at him curiously from atop the screen. Caught staring, she opens her wings and drops out of sight to join Jaskier.

“Does Dag not come indoors?” says Jaskier.

“Now and then,” Geralt answers, before he has fully processed what Jaskier said. His hands still on his armour. “When did she tell you her name?”

“A few weeks ago,” says Jaskier. “I didn’t think much of it. Why? Do you mind?”

“Yes,” says Geralt.

Behind the screen water splashes. “Why on earth would you mind?” says Jaskier. Geralt doesn’t answer. “Well – I suppose that’s another one for the list of things I’ll never understand about you – like your sense of humour, and why you spend hours talking to your horse when you’ve a perfectly good dæmon.”

Rising, Geralt begins setting his armour on the chair. “She isn’t always there,” he says.

“Well, yes, but it’s not as if she goes very far,” says Jaskier.

“Sometimes she does,” says Geralt.

In a sudden fluttering of wings, Tansy reappears atop the screen.

“How far does she go?” says Jaskier.

“As far as she pleases,” says Geralt.

A gentle sloshing of water. Tansy turns on her perch, peering down at her bard, something wordless passing between them. “Does it,” says Jaskier. “I mean, do you – I don’t know how to ask.”

“Spit it out,” says Geralt.

“Can you still feel her?”

“Yes.”

“Does it still hurt?”

“No.”

“I see,” says Jaskier, though Geralt doubts he does. It’s difficult for humans to get their heads around the way he and Dag experience the world. Most aren’t interested in trying.

He hears the water moving, and the padding of Jaskier’s bare feet on the floorboards. His clothes are whisked back down from the screen and half a minute later he emerges, his hair towel-damp. “All yours,” he says.

Geralt sits in the still-warm water, and soaks, and listens as Jaskier putters about on the other side of the screen, getting ready to sleep, listens to the steady back and forth of his conversation with Tansy. He hums, and she whistles along.

When at last, the water cold, he ventures out from behind the screen, Jaskier is on the bed, scribbling something down in his little book.

“You can have the bed,” says Geralt. “I’ll sleep on the floor.”

“Don’t be stupid.” Jaskier shifts over towards the wall. “We’ll both fit. I don’t mind if you don’t.” He glances up from his writing. “Though just to warn you, I’m reliably informed that I kick.”

“He does,” says Tansy from the headboard.

The room smells like candle smoke, and pig fat. The scent of the outdoors still clings to them to their clothes, to Jaskier’s hair. He sleeps facing the wall, the warmth of his body pressed to Geralt’s side. Tansy sleeps with her head tucked beneath her wing. Geralt lies awake, listening to Jaskier’s breathing.

He mumbles now and then in his sleep. And true to his word, he does kick.

*

Morning comes grey, but dry. They eat breakfast in the tavern. Jaskier chatters, about the weather, the food, the song he was writing in the evening. Geralt tunes him out, and lets his eyes roam over the other patrons. His gaze falls on a pair of old men smoking long pipes. They’re looking at him, at the absence beside him, the empty space he occupies. Caught staring they look away.

Jaskier pokes his arm. “Are you listening to me?” he says.

“Hm?” says Geralt.

“I said you’re even more sullen than usual this morning,” says Jaskier. “What’s got into you? Trouble sleeping?”

Geralt turns his attention to his porridge. “You kick.”

“I’m aware,” says Jaskier. “I did warn you. Well, I dare say –”

A woman is approaching their table, purposefully, stoically. Geralt recognises her attitude. Jaskier is savvy enough to guess.

“You’re the witcher?” she says, as if it’s a question. Her dæmon, a large, horned beetle, clings silently to her sleeve.

“Well, he’s _a_ witcher,” says Jaskier. Geralt nudges him to be quiet.

She says, “my sister has a job for you.”

*

The wind is picking up. The day is getting thin. Ahead, on the hilltop, the dark outline of a hay barn, stark and flat against the grey sky.

He dismounts, and ties Roach to a tree.

“Is Dag not joining us?” says Jaskier.

“She comes and goes as she pleases,” says Geralt.

“What, did you two have an argument or something?” says Jaskier. Geralt grunts. “ _Did_ you? About what?”

“You,” says Geralt truthfully, and Jaskier laughs as if he’s made a joke.

Dag is in the air somewhere above them. Irritated with him as she may be, she hasn’t gone far, this time. She’s watching the valley, her keen hawk’s eyes searching for any untoward movement.

He starts to climb the hill. Jaskier makes to follow. Turning Geralt holds up a hand, halting him in his tracks. “Stay with Roach.”

Jaskier adjusts the strap of his lute. “I can handle it.”

“This won’t be pleasant,” says Geralt.

“Honestly,” says Jaskier. “How do you expect me to write about all this if you never let me see anything?”

“I don’t,” says Geralt.

“Anyone would think you didn’t want me to immortalise your deeds in song,” says Jaskier.

“I _don’t_ ,” says Geralt.

“It’s stifling to my creativity, not to mention rude,” says Jaskier. “And wholly unjustified. I have a strong stomach.”

Wavering, Geralt glances at Tansy, on Jaskier’s shoulder. She _hms_ in agreement. He drops his hand. “If you’re sure.”

In the doorway of the hay barn Jaskier turns his face away and retches. “Oh gods,” he moans. “Oh heavens. _Fuck_ me –”

“Go and wait with Roach if you want,” says Geralt.

One hand braced against the door frame, the other over his mouth, Jaskier looks at him. He takes his head from his mouth. He shakes his head. Tansy flutters in the doorway, from the shadow to the light, and resolves. She flies into the barn, up, up to the rafters, and there looks down upon the bodies.

This is where they have brought their dead, this most remote outpost of their village, with the spiders and the rats and the dust. They brought the bodies here, a dozen or more of them, and piled them up, meaning to burn them, meaning to burn this lonely place to the ground.

They’re unmarked. The air is thick with the smell of death. The most recent lies near the door, her eyes open, staring up at the roof. She’s young. Her hair is fair. She’s dressed in an apron, as if she’d just stepped out of her kitchen – to the water pump, perhaps – when she was attacked.

One death such as this, two, they’d bury. This many, in as many days, they know what haunts them, and they fear it like nothing else.

“What killed them?” says Tansy from the rafters.

“Hm,” says Geralt. He crouches to look at the dead girl, to be sure there are no marks on her, as the village healer had said. Taking off his gloves, he touches her face, tilting her head towards the light.

It isn’t his place to interfere with how these people treat their dead; but this isn’t right. There’s nothing to fear here. They are only dead. The danger, the thing that killed them, has passed. There’s nothing to be gained in consigning their dead to this bleak, anonymous fate.

A scuffling, above. Tansy moving on the rafter.

“Geralt?” says Jaskier. “What killed them?”

“ _Shh_.”

Geralt glances up, at Tansy. She’s perched quivering on the rafter. “What is it?” he says.

“Something moved.”

“I didn’t see anything,” says Jaskier.

“You weren’t looking,” says Tansy.

Geralt rises. He reaches for his sword.

The barn reeks of death. In the semi-darkness he had taken it for one of the bodies piled around it. It’s rising now to its feet, its movements stilted, unnatural. You might take it for a lumbering thing, a slow thing you could outrun. You’d be wrong.

Tansy takes flight, flashing in and out of the light from the doorway, and as she does so it begins to move, crawling forward over the piled bodies with the speed of a darting insect, snatching, grasping at the air above it. Jaskier cries out. “Run!” Geralt barks, raising his sword.

The sight of silver gives the dæmophage pause. It halts, its eyes wide and staring, its shoulders heaving. It’s a fluid creature and it no longer needs its human disguise. Its limbs stretch, its spine bends at an unnatural angle, its slit nostrils flaring. It has no mouth. It has no need of one. Frost spreads from its fingers, coating its hands and arms, the bodies beneath it, the packed dirt floor.

He’s aware of laboured breathing behind him. He’s aware, suddenly, that Jaskier has not run. He risks a glance over his shoulder and sees him pressed to the far side of the door frame, gripping the wood with one white-knuckled hand. His other hand is held, clenched, to his chest. The colour has drained from his face.

“Run,” Geralt says. “Run!” Still Jaskier doesn’t move, and stepping back, not taking his eyes off the dæmophage, Geralt reaches blindly behind himself, finds Jaskier and shoves him backwards.

He resists, and in that resistance Geralt feels what has happened, feels it before Jaskier lets out a pained sound, before he says, choked, “ _Tansy_.” For it’s not the resistance of one who doesn’t want to go; it’s the resistance of one tethered, of a tied-up dog trying to run from a fire.

The dæmophage is crawling forward again, one-handed. It’s holding something in its other hand, in a hand thick with ice. He can’t see what it is. He knows what it is. “Geralt –” Jaskier wheezes, and whatever he means to say next he can’t find the breath.

There are many vile ways to die, in the world. Few worse than your dæmon becoming meal to a creature like this, the life crushed from it, your soul slowly, torturously drained away.

He takes off the dæmophage’s arm first, the arm that holds Tansy, and its whole body jerks spraying dark blood across the walls, across the bodies. As its severed arm hits the ground its fingers fall open and he sees her, a fistful of icy brown feathers, but there’s no time to dwell on her, no time to dwell on if he was fast enough, if there is anything left to save. The dæmophage lashes out at him with its other hand, with its sharpening claws; he dodges, swings, and its arm falls to the ground, cut at the elbow.

It takes two strikes to cleave off its head. Its body remains half-upright, swaying, blood bubbling from its neck. He stands over it, sword raised, breathing hard. They’re fluid creatures. Half-shadow. You can never be sure.

It falls. It is still. He lowers his sword.

Behind him Jaskier falls heavily to the ground. Geralt turns to find him on his knees, shuddering all over, gasping, but still conscious, his eyes alert. He slumps forward, catching himself on his hands, and empties his stomach onto the dirt.

“ _Tansy_ ,” he croaks. “Oh gods, Tansy –” He sees her, still in the dead creature’s hand, melted frost dripping from her feathers. He tries to rise. His legs won’t hold him.

She had been in its grip less than a minute. It must have felt like an age. Geralt is surprised he didn’t faint. Perhaps he’s made of sterner stuff than he looks.

Stepping closer Geralt takes his arm and heaves. “I _told_ you to wait with Roach,” he says. But the look Jaskier gives him, of mute, numb disbelief at his coldness, silences any further reproach.

He hauls Jaskier to his feet, but Jaskier tugs his arm from his grip. He wipes his face on his sleeve and staggers forward, falling to his knees once again beside her, reaching for her with shaking hands.

When he picks her up he lets out a gasp of relief – or terror – it’s hard to say which. She doesn’t respond to his touch. She lies limp in his hands.

Jaskier looks up at him, and voice unsteady he says, “she’s cold.”

*

He sets the barn alight. By the time he’s done it’s growing dark, and the wind has died away. He leaves it to burn on its hilltop, to be sure the creature is dead. He’ll tell the villagers to come back when it’s burned to the ground, to take the bones of their dead and bury them properly. They’ll do it, if not for the right reasons.

The barn is a red-orange blaze in the distance. Down in the valley there’s a chill in the air. He can see Jaskier’s breath, though it’s not cold enough for that. He hasn’t stopped shaking. Geralt builds a fire, so he can warm himself, and sets about fastening the dæmophage’s head to Roach’s saddle.

“Geralt, she’s still cold,” says Jaskier. He’s kneeling too close to the fire, Tansy clutched to his chest, hidden in his cupped hands. He’s stripped off his filthy doublet, dark with the creature’s blood. “Geralt. _Geralt_. She won’t wake up.”

“She’ll wake up,” says Geralt.

“Are you sure?” says Jaskier.

“Hm,” says Geralt. He isn’t sure. You can never be sure. But if it had drained enough of the life from her that she was beyond waking, Jaskier’s mind would have broken. She’d be fading away. She was in shock. That was all. She’d wake.

If he’d been fast enough to kill it, but not fast enough to save her – he’d seen it before. He’d seen men and women, their minds broken into icy fragments, spending their last days terrified, in pain, alone. Unable to understand what had happened to them. Sometimes it was more merciful to let the dæmophage finish its meal, and kill them outright.

Not this time. He’d been fast enough.

“She – she won’t wake up, Geralt, she –” Jaskier breaks off in a ragged gasp. “I don’t know what to do.”

“Give her some time,” says Geralt. He fetches a blanket, and tosses it to Jaskier.

Jaskier doesn’t take it. “I can’t wake her up,” he says. “Geralt, what do I _do_?”

“Stop panicking,” says Geralt.

It’s no good. Jaskier understands what he’s saying, but he can’t keep his thoughts straight long enough to act on it. His mind is clouded. Where his connection to Tansy should be there’s nothing but confusion.

“I don’t know what to do,” he says. “I can’t _think_ – Geralt, I can’t –”

His name falls again and again from Jaskier’s lips and it carries a silent plea. _Help me. Do something._

He doesn’t know what to do. Or rather he knows what he ought to do, to offer comfort and warmth until this passes, but he doesn’t know how.

If he had seen it sooner. If he hadn’t let Jaskier talk him into taking him into danger. If he’d been quicker, smarter, harsher.

Tansy will get better. Jaskier will walk away from this.

Tension, behind him. He feels her long before he sees her, long before she ghosts into the firelight on owl-wings. She lands and with a soft rushing of air she’s herself again. Jaskier falls silent, startled at seeing her change, though he knew she cold.

“Jaskier,” she says. “Do you trust me?”

Half-watching, Geralt sees him nod.

“Put her down,” she says.

Jaskier hesitates. “But –”

“I know what I’m doing,” says Dag. “Put her down. Let me see.” Again he refuses, a wordless stammer of protest. “Jaskier. You’re panicking. Breathe deep. Put her down.”

Jaskier lays Tansy down. His hands are still shaking, but his breathing has slowed. That’s something. “What’s happening to her?” he says. “It hurts –”

He’d known it must. But Jaskier hadn’t said so, to him.

Dag noses at Tansy’s tiny, limp body. She licks her, once. “She’s just cold,” she says. “She’s just fainted. She’ll be fine.”

The back of one hand pressed to his mouth, Jaskier sobs.

“Shh,” says Dag. “Jaskier. Be calm.” Then she ducks her head forward, and touches him.

She touches her head to his face, nuzzling him, and at that contact a tremor goes through Geralt like a static shock. It’s only for a moment. Jaskier jerks away from her, as one would if a dæmon came too close by mistake.

He turns to look at Geralt, standing by Roach, no longer pretending he isn’t watching this. Their eyes meet. Geralt says nothing. Does nothing.

Jaskier turns back to Dag. Her eyes are lidded. Gingerly, Jaskier raises a hand to touch her. Geralt should cry out _stop_. He should go over there and drag them apart. He doesn’t.

Jaskier runs his hand over her head, the touch barely-there, just enough pressure to be felt through her fur. Geralt feels that touch like a gentle nudge somewhere within his ribs. It doesn’t feel bad.

He can feel, somehow feel birdsong in that touch. He can feel silk, and music, and laughter. It feels like the smell of perfume and candle smoke. Polished wood beneath his fingers. He’d had another’s hand on Dag before. It did not feel like this.

He wonders what Jaskier feels, touching her.

Jaskier runs his hand over Dag’s head a second time. She purrs, low and deep in her chest. On the ground, Tansy gasps for breath.

“Tansy.” Jaskier’s hand falls from Dag’s head, and he reaches for her. “Oh gods, Tansy –” He cradles her in his hands. Her whole body is trembling.

“ _Jaskier_ ,” she says, and at the sound of her voice all of his breath leaves him, his shoulders shaking, limp, weak with relief. He kisses her, holds her close by his face. Neither of them speak.

Geralt looks away. He meets Dag’s eyes, and she holds his gaze. He understands why she did it. He wouldn’t take it back. He’d do it again, and again. He still doesn’t like it. Dag turns away from him. She lies down beside the fire.

He tucks the blanket around Jaskier’s shoulders, and Jaskier murmurs thanks. He sits. He cleans his sword. The air smells like smoke. They shouldn’t linger here, in the dark. Jaskier’s breath is still fogging the air.

“We should go back to the village,” he says.

“Okay,” says Jaskier. Unsteady on his feet, he levers himself upright with one hand, the other cradling Tansy to his chest. “Okay.”

In the village lights are still burning in the windows. Geralt unties the dæmophage’s mouthless head.

“Should we,” says Jaskier, “talk about this?”

“Hm?” says Geralt.

“You know what I mean,” says Jaskier. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“No,” says Geralt, and taking the creature’s head he marches away.

“I’ve heard of mixed signals,” calls Jaskier in his wake. “But this is _ridiculous_!”

*

The village is too small for an inn, but as well as coin the monster’s head earns them a bed for the night in the alderman’s house, and an invitation to dinner.

The monster’s head, and perhaps Jaskier; Jaskier, whose boyish smile and pretty dæmon had charmed the alderman and his wife at once, Jaskier, who had come back from the hunt pale, and shivering in a way they must recognise.

There’s only one bed in the room they’re given but the alderman’s daughter makes up a cot. He tells Jaskier to take the bed. Jaskier doesn’t argue. Jaskier says nothing at all.

Since his outburst when they reached the village he’s spoken only to say _yes_ and _please_ and _thank you_. He lies upon the bed, staring at the ceiling, one hand stroking a slow, contemplative circle on his own stomach. Tansy sits on the pillow beside his head, plucking at his hair, grooming at him like a mother cat with a kitten.

Geralt washes the dæmophage’s blood from his hands. It has dried into the creases in his palms, under his fingernails.

“Will you come to dinner?” he says.

“Not very hungry,” says Jaskier.

Stretched out upon the cot, Dag raises her head. “You should eat,” she says.

Geralt sees her indoors so rarely. It takes him off-guard, sometimes, how large she is compared to human things. The alderman and his family must have been startled, to see him go on a hunt without a dæmon and return with one, but they had said nothing about it.

She lies alert, tail flicking, watching over Jaskier.

His hands don’t feel clean. He washes them again. “You’re quiet,” he says.

“Hmm?” says Jaskier.

“Are you alright?” says Geralt.

“Since when do you care?” says Jaskier. “I thought you wanted me to shut up.”

 _“What will it take for you to give me some peace?”_ he had said, more than once.

 _“Hell or high water, probably,”_ Jaskier had answered, sunnily smiling.

If he hadn’t been fast enough. If the creature had taken something that could not be brought back – the light in his eyes. Warmth. A smile he’d never see again. Not like this. He didn’t want it like this.

He leans heavily upon the washstand. He breathes out. He’d been fast enough. Jaskier was shaken. That was all. He’d be fine.

“I’m just,” says Jaskier. “Thinking.”

“What are you thinking about?” says Geralt.

“What’s it to you?” says Jaskier. A moment’s quiet, and he says, “why don’t elves have dæmons?”

The question jars him. It’s like something a child would ask. Why it’s on Jaskier’s mind now, of all times, he can’t imagine. “You know why.”

“I want to hear what you have to say about it,” says Jaskier.

“It’s the way the world is,” says Geralt. “Humans have dæmons. Elves don’t. Others don’t.”

“You’re not human and you have a dæmon,” says Jaskier.

“You _know_ why,” says Geralt again. He can feel Dag’s stare on him, accusing, but he can’t help his frustration. He has the sense that Jaskier is goading him – or trying to catch him out in a lie. He doesn’t know what Jaskier wants from him.

“Do you think it’s lonely?” says Jaskier.

“Being an elf?” says Geralt.

“Mm,” Jaskier agrees.

Geralt begins to dry his hands. “You can’t miss what you never had.”

“I don’t know,” says Jaskier. “I miss all sorts of things I’ve never had.”

Geralt waits for him to expand on that thought. But he’s lapsed back into silence. “Elves find dæmons distasteful,” he says. “It bothers them. Like seeing someone with their insides spilling out. They think half-elves born without dæmons are stronger for it.”

At that, mystifyingly, Jaskier laughs a little. “Hear that, Tansy?” he says. “Maybe I would have been stronger if I didn’t have you, like a half-elf. What do you think?”

Tansy clicks her beak. “I think you’d miss me terribly,” she says. “Even if you’d never had me.”

His hands are dry. He stops running the cloth over them, and sets it aside. “Dag’s right,” he says. “You should eat.”

“If you insist,” says Jaskier. “Where are we going next?”

Geralt turns to look at him. He’s gazing up at Tansy, running a finger over her neck. “After dinner?” he says.

“Tomorrow,” says Jaskier. Geralt says nothing, but his silence must speak for itself, for Jaskier looks at him and says, “don’t think you’re getting rid of me that easily.”

“Why?” says Geralt.

“I’m a glutton for punishment, I suppose,” Jaskier says. “Anyway. I’m working on a song and it isn’t finished.”

“Hm?” says Geralt.

Jaskier’s gaze drifts back to Tansy. “Still needs an ending,” he says.

**Author's Note:**

> Dæmons in this fic:
> 
>  **Geralt and Dag:** [white mountain lion](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cougar#/media/File:Mountain_Lion_in_Glacier_National_Park.jpg).  
>  **Jaskier and Tansy:** [common nightingale](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Common_nightingale#/media/File:Luscinia_megarhynchos_Istria_01.jpg).


End file.
